


A Toast For The Lost (And Those Who March On)

by Huehxolotl



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: About what you would expect for war, But she's trying, Gen, Grief, Lyse is a bit of a mess, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:06:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26641906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huehxolotl/pseuds/Huehxolotl
Summary: How many times a heart can break before it's irreparable? How many losses can a person endure without falling apart? Whatever the limit is, Lyse is sure that she's getting close to it.But giving up isn't an option: the only way she's leaving this war is dead or victorious.(While the Scions rest and celebrate their return, the war to protect Gyr Abania wages on under Ghimlyt's eternal night sky.)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	A Toast For The Lost (And Those Who March On)

_**We been shot up, beat up by the fallin’ of the arrows** _

**_Yeah, I’m full of deep cuts right down to the marrow_ **

**_But there’s no doubt we’ll get out from the bottom of the barrel_ **

**_Oh, our flag is tattered_ **

**_And my bones are shattered_ **

**_But it doesn’t matter_ **

**_‘Cause we’re moving forward_ **

_State of my Head - Shinedown_

During her years as a Scion, she had grown accustomed to just about every method of travel, including riding airships, but there’s something distinctly different about riding one to and from the front trenches. Perhaps it’s the haze of smoke they must fly through, making the eternal night of Ghimlyt seem even darker and grittier than it already is. Maybe it’s the overpowering smell of ceruleum, adding to the scent of charred metal, blood, and oil that lingers in the air. Or maybe it’s the roar of the airship propellers and engines, almost but not quite drowning out the explosions and gunfire of the battles that constantly play in her head.

A strong gust of wind rocks the airship, jostling those aboard. The airship rights itself easily, and though the pilot assures them they have nothing to worry about, the injured are displeased at the sudden movement.

Turold, a young private from Gridania sitting across from her, shudders and wraps his arms around his stomach. The poor man -boy, really, as he is younger than even Arenvald- is pale from pain, blood loss, and the effective but not-so-gentle potions he’d been given to ensure he survives the trip back to command. His leg is bound in a makeshift splint, the bandages bloody where his wounds have yet to close. What awful luck the boy has; his first moon on the front, handpicked for a high-ranking mission, and he nearly loses a leg.

“Are we...almost there?” he groans out through his pain.

Sergeant Ulwaix Reavon, the boy’s current CO and an old friend of hers from her years spent working with the Adders, smiles sympathetically. “Quarter of a bell. Just focus on taking deep breaths.”

“They’ll have better potions than our field medics, don’t worry. You won’t be feeling much of anything after they get a hold of you,” she adds, voice rough due to the superheated air that she had been forced to breathe during her sprint across the battlefields. The potion she had taken just before boarding the airship healed some of the damage, but between the smoke, hot air, and her harsh breathing during the sprint, she doesn’t think her voice will return to normal for at least a week or two.

“Not feeling anything seems like a blessing…”

Several of the others nod in agreement, and Resistance and Adder soldiers alike spend the rest of the flight distracting the injured with stories of home. They’re a tired and dirty lot; more so than usual. Ulwaix and she had been tasked with leading a joint operation to route imperial attempts to establish a supply route and sabotage an experimental magitek weapon being transferred to the front. The mission had run longer than expected -had given them more trouble than planned- leaving them with only enough time to collect their gear and stabilize the wounded before boarding the airship back to command.

She tries not to think about how they’re four people less than what they started with, or how Turold and Berit will be sent home due to their injuries, or how Galmr and Silent Mist’s name tags are wrapped around her wrist, or how her hands are still covered in Galmr’s blood.

_“Ain’t worth it, lass. There’s no...surviving this. Not even...on a good day. Better...by your hand...than theirs. Here. Keep it. Use it. May it serve you...for the rest of your days. Many...may they be.”_

Galmr’s knife, the knife she used to give him a quick, merciful death, weighs her belt down. It’s an old knife, made in Ala Mhigo back before Theodoric took the throne and destroyed the economy. The blade is curved and split into two, as if someone had cut a fork in half and bent it inward. Wrapped with brown leather, the gold covered pommel is heavy at the end, serving as a counterbalance to the blade. To call it a dagger is almost misleading; at seventeen ilms, it’s longer than her forearm.

It had been a gift from Galmr’s father when he was a child, and he had passed it down to _his_ son, only to have it returned to him when the young man -child really, as he hadn’t lived to see his sixteenth nameday- died slaving away in a labor camp. That had been nine years after Ala Mhigo fell; Galmr had joined the Resistance the day he buried his son, and spent the next eleven years dedicating his life to saving others from that same horrible fate.

She had learned a lot from Galmr when she had first arrived at the Reach, though he never stayed for very long. He was a restless soul, and, recognizing that quality in her from the very first time they met, had been quick to share with her all the important -but oft avoided- tasks that could be done around the Reach; tasks perfect for those who disliked sitting still and needed to be useful. He had been there when the Reach had been ambushed, had fought alongside her in every battle after her return from Doma, and had given up field assignments in order to help Naago and her figure out how to run the Reach as a proper military base in peace time.

Or rather, help Naago keep order and help _her_ keep her days straight, because she could barely tell which way was up with all the meetings she had to run off to.

Galmr had been a close friend, a confidante, and a good man who deserved more than what life gave him, and she had slit his throat and watched his breathing slow, then stop as she muttered a final prayer to the gods on his behalf.

The prayers had fallen off her tongue out of habit, despite the fact that it’s been years since she gained comfort from them. A small part of her hopes that Rhalgr won’t hold her lack of faith against Galmr’s soul, but it’s hard to believe in the gods after all she has seen. At least, not the way she used to believe. Something about seeing them summoned so often, making slaves of their followers, draining the land of life, and slaughtering any who dare not worship them, has irrevocably changed the way she thinks of the beings that are called gods.

Not that it’s easy to have faith to begin with, when she has witnessed and endured so much _senseless violence_.

A sudden drop in altitude shakes her from her thoughts. Looking out over the rail, she takes in the rows of lanterns, tents and wooden fortifications that make up their command base. It’s no Rhalgr’s Reach, but it’s the closest thing a soldier has to heaven after a trench shift. Warm food. Warm baths. Clean blankets. What more could they ask for in the middle of a warzone? And compared to the rest of Ghimlyt, it’s certainly the _brightest_ place most of them have seen in months.

“No medics waiting. Sergeants, take the wounded to the healers. The rest of you are dismissed.” Not that she _really_ needs to give those orders. It’s standard procedure for her sergeants to escort those whose wounds will likely see them sent home. She would do it herself -would _prefer_ to do it herself- but she is required to report to Raubahn immediately after returning from a mission.

J’rhelu, a sergeant from Ala Ghiri that had been transferred to her squadron last month, nods and asks, “Do you want me to stay for the final diagnosis?”

She cringes and looks down at her burnt, blood splattered uniform and skin. She may not be touting bandages the way the rest of the soldiers are, but that isn’t due to lack of injury; there had simply been no time for her to take care of her wounds, and until she gets to a bath, she can’t even guess at how much of the blood is her own. “That won’t be necessary. Something tells me that I’m going to be there to hear it myself after I’ve reported in.”

The airship completes its descent, and the soldiers lazily gather their gear while waiting patiently for the wounded to hobble, limp, or be carried out of the airship first. The rest of the soldiers stand around, waiting for Ulwaix and her to disembark first.

“Go on then. I’m fine,” she says waving her hand and pretending that the single motion is more taxing than a full on sprint from Starfall to the temple.

Ulwaix shakes his head and sighs. “I’ve got her.”

“I can walk! I just. I’m gathering energy!” she protests. In spite of her words, she offers no resistance when Ulwaix drags her up and throws an arm around her waist. She’ll allow it because her feet hurt. And her arms. And her throat too. ...Okay so maybe _everything_ hurts, but she has to have _some_ pride as a commander. Really, the only thing keeping her up is an ungodly amount of potions and a cup of the worst coffee she has ever had in her life.

“You ran through _literal fire_! I’m grateful, because it saved our arses from certain death, but it was crazy nonetheless. If it hadn’t been a high priority mission, I’d drag you to the healers and let General Aldynn hunt you down for your report.”

She doesn’t argue with him, because she agrees with him on every point, but she _does_ grumble under her breath that she technically outranks him and he has to do what she says either way. His only response is to scoff and note that she couldn’t stop him even if she tried.

“I suppose this is a turnabout for the Gnat incident,” she says instead of arguing that -also correct- point.

“Ugh,” Ulwaix groans. “We promised to never talk about that ever, _ever_ again.”

“No, _you_ swore to never talk about it ever again. I thought it was fun.”

“That’s not what it looked like when you had to explain that series of unfortunate events to the Elder Seedseer.”

“Wh. That’s. Kan-E can be...scary! In her own...uh. Motherly disappointment kind of way.”

“ _Motherly disappointment_?”

“Or something! It’s not like I’ve ever had a mom to know.”

“Motherly disappointment is when you snap a table in half at the Canopy in front of Miounne.”

“Hey! That wasn’t _my_ fault. I’m not the one who smacked a drunken carpenter. I saved you!”

“I had everything handled!”

“What you _had_ was an up close and personal view of the _floor_.”

They get plenty of curious looks due to the state of their clothes; not because wounded soldiers hobbling through camp is an unusual sight, but because two officers covered in blood and slightly more cooked than any living creature ought to be _is_ a sight worth gossiping about. The looks and whispers are ignored as they continue their slightly desperate squabbling until they reach Raubahn’s table, which is located way at the other end of the camp. The details of their mission -and how it had nearly gone entirely wrong rather than just horribly wrong- will be spread throughout the camp by the end of the next night by the mouths of their soldiers, and the officers who watch them approach the table with dubious expressions.

Not including the Maelstrom officers, who are always happy to hear reports that involve explosions and fire.

Or Raubahn and Tadahisa, a jonin commander, who watch them approach with a mixture of concern and relief.

Their arrival at the table is acknowledged with silent nods. The Ishgardian officer continues his report without pause, and, as one, Ulwaix and she lean against the table and pretend that it isn’t the only thing keeping them standing. Not that they fool anyone at all, but appearances need to be maintained; if only to keep anyone from dragging them off to the healers before they have a chance to give their report. She doesn’t want that, Ulwaix doesn’t want that, and Raubahn doesn’t want that, because the only thing _every_ soldier fears in this camp is the healers. Not even the Bull of Ala Mhigo is allowed to disturb the patients unless it is an extreme emergency.

She is in the middle of praying that there aren’t any other reports Raubahn needs to hear before they can give theirs when Kesashi, another jonin, appears beside her with two small stools in hand.

Because hugging is probably too undignified for a commander -even if it is, in her mind, an entirely appropriate reward for this act of kindness- she settles for grabbing one of Kesashi’s wrists with both of her own and doing her best to channel every onze of gratitude she can into her eyes and voice. “ _Thank you_.”

Kesashi turns bright red, nods stiffly, then rushes away when the stools are taken.

“Charmer,” Ulwiax whispers with a laugh.

“What? Like you weren’t considering naming your firstborn after her just now,” she whispers back fiercely.

“I’m _still_ considering it.”

Now that she’s sitting, she decides that the others can take however long they need for their reports. There’s no question that she will have to go straight to the baths and then the healers after this, but that requires _moving_ , and she doesn’t think she can walk anymore. She can feel her strength draining away, and she doesn’t have the willpower to gather up the dredges of her aether and give herself a boost. All she wants to do is lay down...and close her eyes.

( _Close her eyes like Galmr had when she slit his throat._ )

Ulwaix nudges her side. Gently, but it’s enough to make her sway. “Don’t wander, Flamewalker. Focus.”

‘ _Don’t wander._ ’ It’s something Gridanians said often in the years after the Calamity. Normally, it’s a warning to avoid the wilds of the Shroud on the days that aether-corrupted creatures are nearby, but among the soldiers, it’s something said to those who are in the habit of dwelling over dark thoughts.

“...I didn’t _walk_ through the fire. I ran.”

“Nicknames aren’t supposed to make sense.”

She tries to keep herself grounded, really, but there’s no bantering to keep her trauma away at the war table, nothing to keep her from rubbing her hands until her skin is raw, as if covering Galmr’s blood with her own will make anything better. All she can do is listen to _more_ war stories. Lives lost here, and here, and here. Soldiers sent there, and there, and there. No ground gained. No ground given. The border is holding, but every day that passes sees it tainted with the blood of soldiers: Eorzean, Doman, Garlean, or conscripts from other lands who had no stake in this war, but also no choice but to fight for the Empire who held their villages and families hostage.

True, it’s not nearly as dire a situation as all out war would be, but Garlemald can afford to lose far more soldiers than the Alliance can.

When it’s their turn to report, Ulwaix takes the lead. It’s his squadron that saw the most complications. Not to say that the fight had been easy on her end; magitek sky armor had launched missiles at them _and_ the imperials they had been fighting, setting the terrain ablaze before they could even think of escape. They had been sickened to realize that the soldiers fighting on the ground were all conscripts, sacrificed by their imperial masters; she only wishes that she could say that it had been the first time she had seen imperials use such tactics. What was the real surprise was the discovery that the targeted experimental warmachine -for which they and they alone were carrying the special explosives to destroy it with- was not where it should have been.

Instead, Ulwaix’s squad, who were supposed to be targeting a transport of field supplies, had been met with functional magitek armor and its guards.

The only reason they weren’t killed outright is because the damned thing hadn’t been fully charged.

“Once we realized that our information was incorrect, I had my unit circle around to clear an escape path. I took.” She pauses, swallows, and clenches her fist. “I took Galmr with me straight through the fields, and we managed to cripple the weapon before they knew we were there. Though it was close, my squad arrived before their reinforcements did, allowing us to withdraw.”

Short and to the point. It’s all the detail needed for the verbal report, but it leaves so much out. Details like how the only way they could get through enemy territory was to run through still smoldering wreckage and the wildfire that roared in the field courtesy the missile salvos, or how the heated air had burned her throat and melted weaker bits of metal on her uniform. There’s no mention of the dead they’d been forced to leave behind, or how Galmr had been too injured to save, but not enough to die before the imperials could get their hands on him and torture him for information. She said nothing of Turold’s tears when Silent Mist shielded him from gunfire, or Berit’s scream when she took a sword to her shoulder, or her own choked breathing when she walked away from Galmr’s body. There is no explanation given for how she bastardized a monk technique in a way that allowed her to keep the flames away from them but used nearly all her aether, or how she had ignored her condition in her rage and despair, destroying the magitek sky armor that had sealed Galmr’s fate with an ability bestowed upon her by her monk soul crystal.

She _could_ talk about those things, maybe even _should_ , but she is exhausted to the point of numbness, and she can’t get the words past her throat, and Galmr’s blood is _still on her hands_ and Raubahn is watching her with a kinder expression than she deserves and telling her to get to the healers and.

And. What?

Ulwaix rests a hand on her shoulder. He doesn’t react to her flinch, or the now instinctive flare of aether as she readies for an attack. The longer this war drags on, the twitchier the soldiers get. They all know better than to pay any attention to bad reactions. “Do I need to carry you _now_?”

Does he? She closes her eyes and considers the question. Her body feels heavier than it would if Hoary and Ocher both were sitting on her, and she is tempted to take his offer.

But she is _Commander_ Hext before she is _Lyse_ Hext -has been since Conrad left her that title- and morale is low enough as it is.

“...No. I’ll manage.”

The expressions on every officer’s face screams that none of them believe her words, but they understand why she will force herself to walk halfway across camp to the healing ward.

And she does. Slowly, placing her feet one in front of the other in a way that can hopefully fool others into thinking she is being purposeful with her strides. Ulwaix, in little better condition, walks on her left, and Kesashi walks on her right. To Ulwaix’s left is Tadahisa himself, who had given her no choice in the escort.

Were she not already used to the strange regard that the Domans hold for her, she would have tried to argue. Most often, they treat her with the same sort of nervousness that some Resistance and Adder soldiers do; generally it involves lingering looks, an inability to meet her eyes, and unusually enthusiastic responses to her orders.

Domans are respectful, always, but she had lived with Yugiri’s people in Mor Dhona, and she likes to think that she knows them enough to confidently say that this is something...more than that. It’s the way there always seems to be a Doman ready and willing to help her, to the point where many of them are on a first name basis with her soldiers from the Reach; soldiers she _knows_ have been “asked” to make sure she doesn’t overwork herself. It’s the way they seem to prefer to work with her above all other commanders, despite the fact that she lacks more leadership experience than most other officers. It’s the way they say her name: proudly, eagerly, some might even say _reverently_.

It’s, well, it’s the way she has noticed dozens of soldiers act around _Raubahn_.

Which is.

Weird.

Really weird.

“Hey, wait, those are the baths over _there_.”

For once, Ulwaix isn’t ready with a sarcastic quip or a complaint of his own. He blinks, looks around, and frowns down at Tadahisa, who she only just now notices is supporting him.

Tadahisa shakes his head. “In your current states, the risk of either of you accidentally drowning is too great.”

She can’t defend herself against that reasoning; not when she can barely stomach the idea of backtracking those extra six...seven...eight steps. But honestly, meeting her death in the comfort of a warm bath is not the _worst_ way to go. Not by far.

“Oh, the healers aren’t going to be happy with us,” Ulwaix says after sighing deeply.

“Not happy” is a nice way of describing the reactions of the conjurers who are on duty. What follows their arrival is at _least_ a bell’s worth of cursing while they are given a quick cleaning, slathered with goop meant to prevent infection and soothe their burns, and force fed things that they aren’t allowed to question. She suffers through it all with a lack of care made possible by her lack of _coherence_. When she is finally allowed to rest, she falls asleep before her head hits the sad lump of cotton that passes for a pillow.

In her dreams, she is sitting at a campfire, surrounded by all the people she has loved and lost. Yda, Papalymo, dad, Moen, Minfilia, Conrad, Meffrid, Galmr. All of them are there, laughing and joking. It should be comforting, or exciting, but her voice is silenced and her body that of a ghost. She screams, she cries, she begs them to notice her, but none of it matters because no sound or action draws their attention. Eventually, she curls into a ball and gives up, spirit breaking and heart wondering why she can’t be allowed a family even in death.

**“Oh, quit it with the moping, _Flamewalker_. We’ll always be here, but you don’t belong here yet. You’ve work to do back there.”**

Galmr smirks when she looks up at him. He is free of blood and dirt, with his favorite casual outfit on. Peace looks good on him, makes him look younger than she remembers ever seeing him. His smirk softens, then he grabs her arm and tosses her into the fire, laughing at her indignant squeak.

It’s impossible to tell what is reality and what is a dream after that. At some point, she gasps awake to find her body burning, a potion being forced down her throat, and hands holding her down until she drifts away again.

_“I’d rather she stay under your supervision. That fever took far too long to break.”_

_“As would I, but leaving her here would be more detrimental to her mental health than taking her would be to her physical health. Her body will heal with rest; it’s her mind that I fear for.”_

_“...Very well. I’ll post guards at her tent. They’ll alert you if her health takes a turn for the worse.”_

The dreams after that are awful things. Sometimes she’s surrounded by fire, the flames eating her clothes, her skin, her organs, until there’s nothing left of her but charred bones. Sometimes she’s fighting to breathe in a world of smoke, but every breath allows more and more of the ash and grit into her throat and nose, until she’s coughing up blood and ash and slowly choking to death.

She wakes up in her own tent, hungry, sore, and covered in a blanket so thick she resigns herself to a slow death by suffocation. That would explain the nightmares.

"This. Is my tent."

Her rough, cracking voice breaks the relative silence of her tent. Though her words are barely a whisper, her head throbs from both the effort of speaking and the noise. She takes that as a sign that she should sleep more, even though there’s paperwork that she needs to send out to the Reach, soldiers to check up on, reports to write and give, and officer meetings that she needs to attend.

But the blankets are a cocoon of warmth and comfort that she hasn’t experienced in _moons_ , and it takes everything she has just to breathe. Moving any part of her body is out of the question.

Her eyes slip shut of their own accord, everything fading away even as she hears someone call her name.

Her dream returns her to the campfire, but this time it’s her family and friends who are near invisible, and she who is solid. Accepting that she can’t interact with them, she takes in the details of their appearances greedily. Yda in a casual green gown and dad in his hunting leathers. They’re laughing together; something she hasn’t seen in over twenty years. Minfilia, Moen, and Papalymo are as she last remembers them, sharing drinks and stories in a way that their short time together in life hadn’t allowed them to. Conrad, Meffrid, and Galmr are all dressed in loose shirts and pants that saw little use in life, none of them bearing a hint of the pain and loss that marked their lives before.

They’re at peace, and she’s glad because it’s the _least_ they all deserve.

When she finally, fully awakens, she has to take several minutes to breathe and think before she dares to move. Between the fighting, the sprinting, the aether exhaustion, and what was probably a fever, she feels like she had been trampled by a whole flock of chocobos. Wearing armor.

“ _Ow_.”

The word is more of a long and drawn out whimper. There’s no telling how long she has slept, or what time it is in the eternally dark Ghimlyt, but she knows that it’s been _too_ long. Sleep is a precious commodity on the front, and more so for any officer. Not that any sleep she _does_ get is actually restful.

“Commander?” a voice whispers. “Are you actually awake this time?”

She groans, squints at the entrance to her tent, and stares at the floating heads of J’rhelu and...uh, Nif. Nef. ...Noffette? Yeah, that’s right. Noffette. Ulwaix’s cousin.

Uh, why is there an Adder outside her tent?

“...Why?” she croaks after a long silence.

The two women exchange glances, nod, then J’rhelu steps into the tent and lets the fabric fall behind her. “You’ve been asleep for two days.”

Oh, Rhalgr. No wonder she feels so stiff.

“Once your fever broke, the conjurers deemed it better for your...health, that you rest in a quieter part of camp.”

That...doesn’t sound right. Healers _never_ want to let patients out of their eyesight until they’re awake, coherent, and functional. She’s barely any of those _now_ , much less before. Unless she was and doesn’t remember?

“We’ve been put on standby while our squad is assigned new members, you heal, and the investigation into the intel error is complete,” J’rhelu lists dutifully. Though her tone is matter-of-fact, her gaze is sharp as it inspects her.

Not that there’s much for her subordinate to see, because the blankets -which are pulled up to her nose- are much too comfortable for her to consider leaving bed, propriety be damned.

“As for your physical condition, you’ve some smoke damage in your throat, severe aether exhaustion, first degree burns on the bottom of your feet, and, uh. That’s the worst of it, though the healers complained about untreated cuts and bruises. Most of it is healed, but your throat and aether will take some time to recover.”

J’rhelu continues filling her in on what she has missed during her extended slumber. Though it has only been two days since her return, that might as well have been two _years_ for how much happens on the war front. By the time the summary is over with, she is regretfully wide-awake, her stomach is growling, and she really, _really_ needs to pee.

So, in spite of her earlier determination to never leave the safety of her blankets, she musters up the energy to drag herself up and out of bed.

“Nope! No. _No_. You have to stay in bed for another day!”

“...I just need to use the bathroom.”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah, I can let you do that.”

The trip is uncomfortable thanks to her aching feet, but aether drain, at least, is something she has plenty of experience with. Not to say that it’s pleasant by any means, but, like a muscle, aether can only be increased by constant use of it. If anything, she doesn’t feel nearly as bad as she would expect. Gridanian work, without a doubt. She knows the feel of their healing spells like the back of her hand.

The camp is quieter and emptier than usual. She is given nods by the few soldiers she passes, but isn’t stopped by anyone. It must be late; not that time really matters to anyone in Ghimlyt, except for officers who need to keep track of every minute and hour because there’s always somewhere that they need to be. Most soldiers sleep and eat on the schedule determined by the bells that ring four times a day. Time in between is theirs to use at their leisure.

She hears none of those bells during her brief time awake. Relieving herself, eating the soup that Noffette delivers, and finalizing her full report -most of which J’rhelu had completed while she slept- of the incident takes some time, as well as any strength she has regained.

But any energy she has fades when J’rhelu hesitantly holds out two packages: one large plain box, and a smaller wooden box.

“From the Reach...and from Galmr,” J’rhelu says, cautious, slow, watching her like she’s a wild animal in danger of bolting.

Considering she _feels_ like a wild animal, frozen under her subordinate’s gaze and staring at the box as if it will snap at her, she supposes that the caution is justified. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Galmr’s personal belongings are hers to deal with. Silent Mist’s family will receive her belongings, but Galmr had no one and nothing but the Reach. As the commander of the Reach, it fell to _her_ to decide what to do with his stuff.

“Ok.” Her voice is faint and weak, but she’s going to pretend that it’s the smoke damage and exhaustion that causes it, not the fact that she is mentally back on the battlefield, one hand on Galmr’s cheek in a final act of tenderness, the other sliding a knife across his throat. Her hands had been covered in blood from when she had tried to put pressure on the wound, praying the blood would stop but knowing that it was pointless. He died with a relieved smile and her bloody handprint on his cheek.

She takes the packages and avoids looking at her hands. They’re clean, she tells herself, but she can still feel the hot, slick blood, and can see it on her hands, dribbling down like sap from a splintered tree. She all but tosses the package and box onto the small nightstand next to her bed, unable to stand the reminder of her friend.

‘ _Tomorrow,_ ’ she thinks, burying herself under her covers and turning her back to the entrance. ‘ _Tomorrow, I’ll deal with it_.’

Tomorrow comes, and she doesn’t deal with it.

Or the next day.

She has meetings to attend from the time she wakes up until long after she should be sleeping. The pitiful state of the Resistance troops saw many of their squadrons being sent off in every direction, used to round out the numbers of the larger, better armed companies, so despite her position as a commander, she has no permanent posting. The more experienced officers are left in charge of the various fronts while she leads an independent strike squad. As a result, she doesn’t just have to keep track of _one_ front, or _one_ company, she has to stay up-to-date on _all_ of them. When she isn’t out on the field carrying out guerilla strikes, she’s at Raubahn’s side, debating with the other strike squad officers where they will be sent out next.

The stalemate continues only because their squads have been hard at work to ensure that supply routes and transfers in enemy territory are sabotaged. Garlemald has them outnumbered and outgeared, but not even the all-powerful empire can fight if its troops can’t get supplies or new magitek. It’s necessary work, but _dangerous_. Conrad had taught her to always be aware of the human price every operation will cost, and she took those words to heart with every mission that she helped plan or planned herself afterward. It kept her grounded, tempered her more reckless impulses. Her own life, she could care less for, but she refuses to let any more people suffer than she has to. That, she promised to herself long ago.

But now that lesson is a curse. In this war, squads like hers are known as “death squads” for two reasons: they leave a trail of destruction wherever they go, and their survival rate hovers somewhere around thirty percent. Unlike scouts or spies, when they’re sent out, it’s because something somewhere needs to be stopped at nearly any cost. Small sacrifices to prevent all out war. A handful of deaths to prevent thousands.

Her operations have the best survival rate of the death squads, and she has lost soldiers in every single one.

The pressure to succeed, the mentality that they _will_ succeed or they will die trying, the knowledge that they are operating without any backup except each other, and the expectation that they will watch someone in the squad die a horrific death wears on them. She has witnessed more than her share of good soldiers break down from the stress of it all, and never once blamed them for it.

After this last mission, she wonders if she might be experiencing some sort of breakdown herself.

The jumpiness, paranoia, and nightmares that haunt her sleep: those are normal, even _expected_ among the soldiers. She has experienced them all to some degree for...most of the last year, to be honest, and she handles them all with the weariness found in any veteran soldier. Mostly by pushing aside her emotions, focusing on her work, and sleeping only when too exhausted to dream. Is it healthy? No, but it works.

She can’t do that now. Not this time.

Losing Galmr is like losing a limb. Just as when she lost Papalymo, she keeps turning to ask his advice or opinion, only to remember that he is gone and never coming back. J’rhelu is the one who has become her aide, shadowing her steps as Galmr did just a few days ago, and part of her hates it because J’rhelu is too small, too skinny, and not wearing the right uniform. The difference catches her off guard every time, and though J’rhelu never fails to wait patiently for her to sort herself out, she can’t help the bitterness that settles in her heart.

( _It isn’t about J’rhelu, it’s about how_ unfair _it is that even though they won, even though they finally gained their freedom, imperials are_ still _taking her important people away and she_ hates _them and everything they stand for._ )

And her _hands_. They itch. Constantly. No matter where she is or what she’s doing, sometimes she will catch sight of her a hand out of the corner of her eye and swear that it’s covered in blood. It doesn’t help that her constant scratching and rubbing has left her skin red. After the conjurer glared and smacked her hand away from scratching during her last checkup, she had decided to wear long gloves again.

It helps. A little.

When the urge to scratch becomes too much to bear, she has found solace in taking out Galmr’s knife and playing with it. He had taught her all the little tricks that she has seen Thancred performing over the years, and it’s comforting to recall his voice as she twirls it around her fingers. It may have been the knife that she used to hasten the end of Galmr’s life, but it’s easier to hate herself than it is to hate something Galmr loved.

The fifth day after her return, and third since her extended nap, Raubahn silently hands her a list of available soldiers when their final meeting ends. For a moment she can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but fight her horror at the thought of _replacing_ Galmr and Silent Mist and Berit.

But the moment ends, and she forces herself to accept it. If there’s anything she’s used to by now, it’s losing people.

“...There are Adders and Domans on this list.”

Raubahn nods slowly. “I trust your judgement.”

Such a simple statement for such a grand gesture of trust. Mixed squadrons are rare, and few of them work out for long. Squadrons from different nations working together are one thing; asking an individual to work alongside unfamiliar faces in a foreign land for an indefinite period of time is another. Few soldiers will outright complain, but the longer this war drags on, the more people cling to the familiar.

“I’ll have the list ready by tomorrow,” is all she can say in response.

The midnight bell finds her at the edge of camp, a plate of food long empty, the list covered in ink, and her attention entirely focused on perfectly catching the knife after throwing it in the air. She isn’t nearly exhausted enough to sleep without nightmares, however much her body begs for sleep. Tired of being in her tent, she had wandered out and settled in the first place she found that didn’t have any foot traffic. The scenery can’t compare to her normal brooding spot on Rhalgr’s hand, but it’s relatively silent so she’ll take it.

“Now what did that poor piece of paper do to deserve such a liberal amount of ink? Is it a budget report?”

She jumps, cursing, then curses again when she nearly catches the knife by the blade, then again when she spins around to see that Pipin is snickering quietly into his hand.

“If you think I’ll feel too guilty to want to explain to Raubahn why I stabbed his son, don’t,” she mutters with a scowl.

Pipin shrugs as he replies that he returned just after the third bell. The unrepentant smirk on his face fades after she huffs. “I heard from father,” he says softly, holding up a bottle of liquor and two shot glasses.

Looking away, she sighs and drops her shoulders. “...Oh.”

Galmr and Pipin had worked together often during the moons she spent in Doma. Nearly a dozen slave camps had been liberated due to their efforts, and three times as many nights had been spent plotting said liberations. After Ala Mhigo was freed, Galmr had gifted Pipin with a bottle of rare Ala Ghiri arak.

She wonders if it’s the same bottle that Pipin is pouring now.

He hands her a glass, careful not to spill the precious drink, and raises his own. “To those we have lost.”

Mouth twisting into a bitter smile, she taps her glass against his and finishes the phrase. “May we honor their memory.”

The drink burns its way down her throat, leaving the familiar aftertaste that she never acquired a liking for. Yeah, _definitely_ arak. Blinking back tears, she realizes that this is the first time she has acknowledged Galmr’s death out loud for something other than a report.

“They’re calling you Flamewalker, you know.”

Sighing heavily, she closes her eyes and rubs her forehead. “Oh, I’m going to _kill_ Ulwaix.”

“Galmr would have enjoyed it.”

She thinks of a campfire, of family and friends at peace, and a laugh that she’ll never hear again. Yes, he would have. “Even more reason to try and make sure it never sticks. He had a terrible naming sense.”

Pipin only shakes his head and pours her another drink. They both know that there’s no escaping the nickname. Things like that spread faster than wildfire in a dry field; the soldiers don’t have anything better to do other than gossip and drink during their two days between trench shifts. After she downs her drinks, he says, “There’s another reason I went looking for you. We received an update concerning the Scions.”

The glass slips out of her hand, saved only by her quick fumbling.

“It seems that they have made a full recovery.”

The entire world freezes for a moment as a weight lifts off her shoulders.

‘ _They’re okay. They’re_ okay _.’_

“Of course they made it,” she whispers, a fond smile playing at her lips. They’re heroes, after all, and heroes are always out pulling off the impossible. The relief that she doesn’t have to add them to her list of friends lost is so profound that it brings tears to her eyes.

This time, she pours her own drink.

“The messenger won’t be sent back for another bell, if you wanted to send a letter along,” Pipin adds after she has had time to process the news. He lets her consider the offer while he takes two shots in quick succession. “We haven’t many details concerning their status, however.”

Part of her wants to run off to her tent right away and start writing a letter to her friends, but even as she acknowledges the urge, she knows she won’t. What is there to say? She knows her friends have had quite an adventure in the other world; her own time spent on the front can hardly compare, she’s sure. She’s a little more scarred, a little more broken, but she’s still fighting the same fight.

“The Scions have better things to do than worry about me,” she eventually declares. “Let them have their rest. The gods know they deserve it.”

Pipin narrows his eyes at her, but doesn’t argue her decision. They share two more drinks, letting the alcohol settle in their blood before going their separate ways. The looseness and heat in her body is a rare thing to find on the battlefield. It would be easy to seek out this feeling the way others do, turning alcohol into an addiction that, like primals, only ever demands more and more out of those who turn to it. But the lack of caring and the everpresent warmth are almost worth it, she thinks in her worst moments.

It’s times like those that she understands Thancred the most. Not that she’ll ever tell him that.

( _Not that he has ever been very skilled at listening to anyone’s pain but his own_.)

Dropping herself into her cot, she stares at the untouched packages on her nightstand. She hasn’t been able to bring herself to open either package, but alcohol isn’t called liquid courage for nothing. With a deep, steadying breath, she grabs the larger package.

It’s an outfit, but not just _any_ outfit. She recognizes the gold, the beads, and the armor. This is a _monk_ outfit, similar to the one Widargelt wears. The vest is a little longer, but bears the same patterns. Rather than black, it is red; a bit of personalization that warms her heart more than any amount of alcohol. The ends of her gloves are a purple to match the Resistance flag, and in place of the pelt is a sash of the same color, with gold embroidery that flows into a rearing griffin on her left side.

Her favorite part is the leg armor. She has missed Yda’s greaves, but also loves the feeling of freedom that the folk dress offers. This is the best of both worlds, with one leg covered in armor, and the other left free. The pants are her signature red as well.

She spends some time running her fingers over the material, noting the striking resemblance to Ananta sashes in the cloth and patterns. With so much of the Fist’s knowledge lost to the world, it makes sense that the new monks would turn to the Ananta for help with creating new outfits.

This is an outfit for battle. For _war_. And she intends to wear it proudly.

Carefully, she takes Galmr’s knife care kit off the nightstand and replaces it with the uniform. The care kit is something she recognizes well. She needs two hands to count the times Galmr has lectured her about proper knife care as they took inventory at the Reach. If she closes her eyes, she can see him pulling each item out carefully, explaining their uses and making her practice on broken knives until her arms near fall off.

But when she lifts the lid, what greets her is not a whetstone, oil, and cloth, it is paper. Curious, she pulls it out and unfolds it.

 _If you’re reading this, lass, it means I finally met my end. Now you’re probably moping about, but I won’t have none of that now. If you were there at the end, if you’re_ alive _to read this, then there’s nothing for me to regret. I leave our home in good hands._

_Now, hopefully my knife wasn’t lost in the battle that took my life. I’ve been planning to leave it to you since you proved yourself capable of sharpening knives. It’s sharp as the day my father bought it, so don’t you go around swinging it like you do that fancy knife on your arm!_

Tears dot the page as she reads on, but she can hear his voice in every word. The grief, alcohol, and late hour lull her to sleep, Galmr’s final goodbye clutched in her hand.

_(In another part of camp, Raubahn nurses his cup of arak and listens as Pipin assures him that his fears were unfounded: Lyse is not so lost in her grief that she will break. Though he has faith in her strength, the way that she clings to that knife worries more than a few officers. That empty, far away look is something he knows all too well. He drinks, and remembers all the good soldiers he has seen take their own lives after one too many losses, and thanks any god that will listen that Lyse Hext is not soon to be one of them.)_

_(In Rhalgr’s Reach, the place that Lyse calls home, M’naago is curled up in her bed. Sleep eludes her as she recalls the latest list of soldiers killed in action. Galmr is gone, and Lyse is alone out there, and she hates that she can’t help her commander. Her_ friend _. She wants nothing more than to be on the battlefield, but Lyse had entrusted their home to her, and so she remains. All she can do is pray, and pray she does. Just as she has every night since Lyse left. ‘_ Please, gods, _please_ bring her back. I can’t lose another one. I _can’t_.’ _)_

_(Across the world, where it is the middle of the day and the sun shines bright, Hien reads his shinobi’s latest report of the battlefield. It is much the same as the last report: the stalemate holds, the alliance uses the time to recover, and his people continue to make friends with their Eorzean counterparts. What holds his interest is the final paragraph, where Tadahisa details Lyse’s latest exploits. His good friend has faced another terrible loss, and though it frustrates him that he cannot be there to fight at her side, he finds small comfort in the fact that his people are eager to watch over one of their heroes while he cannot.)_

_(And in the Rising Stones, home of the legendary Scions of the Seventh Dawn, Alphinaud takes in the laughter and noise of his comrades and grins at the Warrior of Light. “Thanks to your reports, I had known that all was well in the Source, but there is no relief like seeing our comrades again with my own eyes.”)_

**Author's Note:**

> Since Isildaure and Alienne have traveled to Doma since the last patch, I'm absolutely going to take that to mean that at least two months have passed between 5.2 and 5.3. Fight me.
> 
> This is a lot angstier than I had planned it to be. As in, I hadn't planned for much angst at all. Hell, the two entire scenes I had thought to base this fic around either didn't happen or had very little mention at all??? Idk what happened, I'm just the author.


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